


macédoine

by poppywine



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Age Swap, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Emotional Baggage, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, One Shot Collection, Other, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:08:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppywine/pseuds/poppywine
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	1. (BioShock Infinite) Age Swap AU

She never expected dying to feel like splinters. 

In fact, she’d never expected it to feel like anything. But now, as she hovers between awareness and unconsciousness, she can almost make out the sensation of rough, worn down floorboards against her fingers. Almost casually, she notices how she’s balancing on the razor's edge between wakefulness and oblivion that she came from. The cold glass that had been against her back felt different now, too- warmer and more solid, like it had turned into concrete while she was bleeding out. None of this makes sense, not that she’s really thinking about it. Instead she waves it away, instead preferring to plunge off the edge back into the blackness. _I’m dying,_ she tells herself, as the void washes over her in greedy surges. _That’s all._ _Everything feels wrong because my body is giving up_. She almost believes it for a moment, but just as she is about to surrender, to fall back into that starless sky for the last time, she hears something. 

A child, screaming.

 _I’m sorry Sally,_ she thinks, already halfway gone. _Forgive me._ But the child’s voice is not the same as Sally’s- it’s shrill, and younger: not that of a frightened little girl but rather…

A baby.

 _What is this?_ She thinks to herself, unwillingly drifting back to the sound. The screams rise louder still, this time even more insistent. _There was no baby. This can’t be right. It can’t- it just can’t._ Sally was the only child there with Atlas, and Elizabeth herself was _dying_ , bleeding out across chipped tiles as a ghostly girl feathered small fingers across her blood-smeared hairline. This squalling infant was just adding insult to injury, another smarting reminder of her failure to save anyone, anyone at _all_ , and why didn’t the shrieking little voice _understand_ , get it through its head that she was choking on her own agony, that she was - 

she was -

“I’m dying. Shhhhhh.”

The voice is her own, little bit slurred, slightly incoherent, yet still very much hers. Vaguely, she registers the sound of herself with surprise, but she still very much wants to return to the forgiving dark instead of thinking about it. The screams slow, pause, and start up again moment later, still demanding. 

_Oh, hell._

_“_ I’m coming ! I’m _coming_!”

Before she can register the motion, her legs kick out work of their own volition and she lurches upright, the muscles in her back twinging as she adjusts to the movement. Startled, she peers down at herself, hardly registering the unexpected clarity of her vision -no longer burdened with blood loss- and finds herself wearing a modest nightgown, clean and lightly ruffled along its hem. 

_This is WRONG,_ a part of her screams, scrambling her mind in its hysteria. But even as she’s reacting to it, trying to get a grip on the fear, it shrivels to nothing so fast it almost seems a figment of her imagination. In its place an easy calmness comes to her, draping over her like a gentle veil. Already she’s beginning to understand, to see this new place as it is- a warm apartment, tiny yet clean and organized with slanting morning sunlight spilling over the floorboards where she had been sitting. _It’s another timeline,_ she realizes suddenly, hands already twisting her (normal) pinky nervously. The thought that she’s not dead is a confusing one: part of her wants to cry, while the other part of her is already, however stupidly, daring to hope. _I’ve opened another door._

As if to underscore this, the childish squeals start again, then break apart into pathetic hiccuping. The noise pushes her into movement, uproots her feet from where’d she’d been, and automatically she swings open the door to the right of her, unthinking as she pitches into the room on the balls of her feet. Already wary, she scans the room with bated breath, expecting something (anything?) to rush her. The place seems homey, cozy and well-lived but Elizabeth Comstock Dewitt is nobody’s fool.

(At least, not any more.)

She’s so concerned with being attacked that she hardly notices the crying has grown louder from nearly directly in front of her. Her eyes snap to the source of the noise, more annoyed then concerned, but her hard expression falters when she wraps her mind around the shape before her. 

It’s a crib. 

Mesmerized by the thing, braces her hands on its edges and leans over; hilding her breath as she looks inside the small bed. 

A baby.

The child honestly doesn’t strike her as real: even as she leans close enough to feel the warm in-and-out of its breath and see the soft thump of its pulse against its ribs. The infant's eyes are slitted so narrowly they might as well be closed, cheeks red with effort. Sticky tear trails mar the chubby face, and its hair is moist with sweat. The crying has stopped only to be replaced by a soft weeping, and the sound is so pathetic Elizabeth is helpless to stop herself. Almost impulsively, she reaches into the crib, feeling the fragile warmth of the child and its weight in her arms. Bouncing the infant gently, she takes the closeness to observe the baby, trying to grasp her new situation even as her heart unwillingly opens itself to this newborn stranger. 

Apparently soothed, the baby presses itself and blinks up at her, lips quirked in an adorable half smile. The child's eyes are _green,_ a deep serious laurel color that makes her heart hurt, and before she can register _why,_ she’s flashing back to a memory of her time in Rapture, alone with that color again as a voice filled her head:

_“You decided to come here, Elizabeth. You knew what that meant. Only option, as I see it, is to trust yourself.”_

_  
_ She almost drops him, then.


	2. (NSFW) (BioShock Infinite) Time Comes Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booker’s hand, rough and impossibly warm, drapes itself over your own, smoothing small circles against your skin with his thumb. He meets your eyes, falters.  
> “I just- I can’t. You have to tell me what you want, instead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following fic is NSFW. The sex is vanilla, with a sad ending.

You’re on your fifth shot of the night when he comes in, head ducked like it’s raining even though the night has been nothing but clear. It’s none of your business, though, so you turn your attention back to the glass in front of you, knocking it back to make way for the sixth. The booze here is cheap and weak, cut with something little better then muddy water, but the price is good and it’s close enough to your sparse apartment that you can reliably find your way home each night, no matter how buzzed you are. 

_ Home _ . At the word, your stomach flips sickeningly, and you know it’s not the booze that makes you react in such a way. It’s been less then six months since you lost the last place you’d called home, a tiny cottage on barely an acre of wildflower-choked land, and the slow-burning ache of misery and humiliation has yet to fade, even a little. The smug bastard the collection agency had sent hadn’t even looked you in the eye, instead addressing you over his shoulder as he inspected the structural integrity of the place you’d once intended to call home forever. It hurt to give in to the bank, sign away your most precious belonging- but you knew that without any employment, your options were limited. You’d rationed out your savings, living penny to penny in the hopes that a fresh opportunity would come along- but it never had, and with a heavy heart you’d had to sell your little house and leave for the city in search of work. Even though you’d gotten hired shortly after arriving, the situation stung- you were alone in an unfamiliar city and almost flat broke, with nothing but terrible alcohol to keep you company. In fact, you’re so deep into your brooding that you only manage to free yourself when the tall man from before sits beside you, slamming an elbow on the table hard enough to rattle the upended glasses beside you. You swivel sharply in your seat, ready to give him grief over the ruckus he’s causing, but when you steady yourself long enough to shoot him a furious glare, you find he’s already turned to face you, face oddly handsome despite the purple crescent of bruising under one eye.

“Oh... sorry, miss.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol flooding your bloodstream or the warmth of the patrons around you, but you choke out a vague reply and turn away, flushing awkwardly as you fiddle with an empty glass. He’s handsomer then the typical rabble you share the space with, even with the discoloring bruises. Beyond that, though, his eyes are striking- a gentle hazel, filled with a kind of deep-rooted sadness that seems to pin you in place. 

_ I don’t have to worry about it _ , you tell yourself, and for a while you don’t- instead, you order another drink and savor it, nursing the bitterness and the oncoming inebriation. It’s after you finish the drink (and another after that, but who’s counting) that, finally steeped in liquid courage, you turn to him and none-too-gently put your hand on his shoulder.

“What’s your f-fucking issue?” Your voice is too loud and blunt, playful to point of obnoxiousness. He jumps under your touch, rattling the glass by his elbow. 

“I- what?” His voice is rough and warm, and maybe you’re drunker than you thought, but his eyes seem even greener than before, striated with hazel. 

“You’re sulking. It’s blocking my light.”

“Ah. Sorry... miss.” He starts to slide off the stool, aiming to sit somewhere else, but your hand shoots out and pins his wrist on the bar top. “I’m not saying you go. I’m saying... maybe I can help?” 

He tells you his name is Booker. He’s a widower, used to have a daughter- he doesn’t get much farther then that in his story, his shoulders tensing up with poorly suppressed tremors when he tries to continue. You let the matter rest, instead leaning heavy on his shoulder as you rib him about nothing in particular. After a few minutes of silence between you, you untangle your fingers from his own (when did that happen) and ask him where, exactly he thinks he’s taking you. He freezes, stammering a little at the question, before speaking. His office, or is it an apartment? His place, anyway. His reaction is cute, in a way- he seems to have forgotten he’d invited you back to his room at the beginning of your walk. When you remind him, he shifts guiltily and clears his throat. 

“Sorry, sorry.” He mutters, flushing a delicious pink under dark stubble. After a beat, he swallows nervously and leans closer to you, green eyes full of secrets. “Are- are you sure about this?” 

“Oh, absolutely.” You’re tipsy, but not drunk enough to forget what’s going on around you, but you appreciate the gentlemanly concern nonetheless. After a moment, he continues, worry creasing the space between his eyebrows. 

“Most respectable ladies would rather keep their distance from me, is what I’m saying.” 

Biting back a giggle, you pull your hand from his (again,  _ how _ ) and swat his behind, more than pleased with the way he jumps. 

“Who said I’m respectable?”

At this, his expression relaxes, some of the stress lines smoothing away with a smile. 

“If you insist.” 

Maybe it’s your mutual unhappiness, maybe it’s the simple need for human companionship, or maybe it’s just the liquor making you reckless, but you melt into each other with a greedy neediness, staggering into his apartment without either breaking your grip.On your way up the stairways to his apartment, you’re both clumsy, desperate- his hands drift up and down your body, squeezing you like he can’t believe you’re real, while you press kisses along his neck and jaw, delighting in the way his breathing gets heavier when you find a particularly sensitive spot behind his ear. He slams the door open with a rattling thud and kicks it shut behind you, scooping you up bridal style and kissing you so hard you find yourself momentarily forgetting to breathe. You drunkenly giggle against his chest as he effortlessly carries you across the room, a breathless  _ hahaha  _ that sounds like it’s coming from a schoolgirl. Here, in this little ramshackle apartment of his, you feel good, wanted and desired and  _ solid _ , not just an empty bank account or meager paycheck. It’s probably silly, you know, and painfully fleeting, but the closeness of your bodies soothes some of the emptiness in you- both of you, if you’re being honest. His gaze, while focused on you, flickers between desperation and nostalgia- but you know you’re hardly any better, so you let the matter rest. 

When you reach the bed, you take the lead and straddle him, smiling as he inhales sharply and his eyes darken. The warmth of his skin is nice, chasing away the misery of earlier. Before you can comment on his reaction, his hands fly up and lock your hips in place, firmly holding you where you are. “I... Are you sure you want this?” he whispers thickly, swallowing thickly when you settle your hands over his larger ones. 

“Yes, idiot. I’m not here for the  _ view _ .” 

With that, he  _ pounces,  _ flipping you over with ease and caging you with his arms. He’s careful, though. His weight doesn’t rest on you, but rather in his palms on either side of your head- a subtle gentleness that makes you smile. You can feel the length of his cock hardening against your thigh. When you give an experimental roll of your hips he draws in a breath, leveling you a warning glare. You grin at his laughable show of restraint and repeat the motion. Then he kisses you again, harder then before, and you find yourself forgetting to play coy, lost in the softness of his lips against your own.

He’s good at this— good at drawing the breath from your lungs, reducing you to squirming underneath him. One of his hands cradles your face, thumb ghosting across your cheek. He pulls away slightly, breaking the kiss, but before you can gather your thoughts enough to complain his mouth moves down your neck, biting gently, dipping into your collarbone, before his attention comes to your breasts. You hardly even notice, but your chest is already heaving, rising and falling with deep breaths—and since you’ve started unbuttoning your blouse, there’s not much skin left to the imagination.

His rough fingers skim experimentally across your breast through your bra- The touch is light, barely feathering through the material, but it’s a promise that makes you whine against his mouth. With an impatient tug, he pulls the fabric down and then lets his thumb edge around your nipple. It feels like a jolt to your groin; you shiver against him, hips stuttering against him in a desperate rhythm.

You can feel the little pulses of pleasure gathering in your cunt, clenching and unclenching against nothingness. You want him inside of you—now. Your hands fumble with the hem of his sweatpants and he laughs, giving your breast one last little bit of suction before you manage to grasp his hard cock. 

The breath leaves your body in one shaky gasp, and the muscles in your abdomen tighten, and your thighs fucking tremble and he’s big and thick and it hurts a little bit, but mostly you’re overwhelmed by the sensation of being full and filled and—

You can feel the building tension in your limbs, the quiver and tautness of your stomach, the ache of your fingers knotting in the sheets.

“Annabelle,” he growls, and his voice is all gravel and smoke. You lay beneath him, quivering with the aftershocks of your orgasm, when he comes. He lets out a breathless little cry and buries his face in your shoulder, cock twitching within you. Your hands rest on his back, and for several moments, you remain that way.

He holds onto your hips for a long time, holds onto your body for longer, and you think you feel his hands press harder into your skin, almost unnoticeably—

He clears his throat.

You don’t mention it.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. (BioShock 2) Reader Insert - Big Sister POV

The world had ended while you were sleeping. 

That wasn't an exaggeration, either. While you were resting, stealing a precious few hours of sleep, the Daughter of the People had disappeared, and with her, the Mother of the Family. It had just taken you until now to realize, even with the complete lack of sermons filling the air. 

You didn't make the connection, earlier. It wasn't until you had teleported to the where the Persephone colony was. 

Or was supposed to be. 

The greedy darkness of the underlying trench was the only sight that greeted you, instead of the quarantine chamber when the Daughter had been. It felt like the air had been punched out of you, even with the oxygen tank strapped to your back. You panicked; there was no one to fight to change anything, not even a target to pursue. Despair swelled in your chest, filling you to bursting.

You had failed. The Daughter and the Mother were dead for all you knew, and you were alone, without even a Sister for company. Under the impenetrable metal of your helmet, a few hysterical tears dripped down your face, and without conscious thought you teleported back to Dionysus Park, denial and adrenaline wreaking havoc on your brain. The stone statues, swathed in wet burlap, were no match for your temper and plasmids, though after you pummeled the seventh one you could feel a horrible emptiness rising inside. You pushed it down, though, instead focusing on the way the stone chips scattered over the black marble floors when you decapitated a carving.  _ Maybe this was how the abandoned Big Daddies felt,  _ you thought, turning and viciously kicking the side of a moldering corpse. The momentum sent it twirling across the room and you watched it go blankly, hearing the way the breaking bones echoed against the domed ceiling.  _ Now that I have nothing to live for, nothing else should survive either.  _ Spurred by fresh wave of misery, you darted further into the building, dead set on setting the rotten carousel on fire. You'd always hated that thing.

-

Hours later, you sat heavily on a large piece of broken masonry, finally exhausted. The constant impacts against your body from the force you had exerted had left your entire body shaky and your head light. The room seemed to be vibrating, or maybe it was the lingering rage fighting against your emotional exhaustion. 

_ I'm alone _ . 

The thought pounced on you and you were too mentally drained to fight it, instead letting it wash through your mind and grow like a cancer.

_ I'm alone. I'm a failure. I slept through the destruction of the Family and now this is my purgatory. I  _ **_hate_ ** _ myself. Hate hate hate hate hate-  _

The faintest sound of static shattered your mental self-abuse, and instantly you jumped into a standing position, straining to follow the sound. 

Your search led you to the train station, in the conductor's booth. Desperate, you started pulling every level and punching every button, trying to draw the signal into clarity. 


	4. (BioShock 2) false & unwilling idols

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for unhealthy obsession. nothing explicitly sexual or underaged, but the Rapture Family scientist is throughly indoctrinated and displays a sense of deluded mania while studying this Big Sister.

“Hhhhhhh.”

He's never seen one this close before. The girl on the table is beautiful in a raw way, slick with an ugly mixture of fresh and old sweat, dirt and blood. Her eyes are closed but when he gently thumbs one open it’s unfocused, with the pupils looking like huge pools of ink, gradually devouring the iris surrounding them. When he shines a penlight into one, he's rewarded with a lazy reaction, syrup slow. 

Still under, then. 

With a barely restrained joy he reaches across the table to her other elbow and jabs two fingers directly beneath the IV needle in her arm. The room isn't cold, not like the rest of the city, but where his fingers ghost against her, the flesh prickles with goosebumps. Maybe she knows, then, even under the haze of drugs and unconsciousness. Knows what's coming. 

He yanks the IV out too fast, eagerness making his motions sloppy, hungry. A fat bead of blood pushes to the surface in its wake, almost mesmerizing in its redness, and before he can stop himself his finger swipes up the drop and crams the smear in his mouth. The taste is intoxicating; wine-rich and sweet, and for a moment he allows himself to indulge in the familiar fantasy of just being able to _take_ , peel away the layers of skin and bone and gorge himself on the ADAM hiding beneath. 

But no. There is work to be done. 

As if on cue, the body on the table shifts faintly, the sedative already fading. Transfixed, he leans closer to her face, close enough that his breath flutters her eyelashes. Maybe it's the ADAM singing through his insides, but the grime on her face had dried in fragments that reminded him of stained glass. All the more fitting, then, that this was her ascension. She blinks groggily at his intrusion at first, but she is dragged into waking when the overhead fluorescents sting her eyes. At this distance, he can see the veins broken just under the surface, as thick and vibrant as tangled red thread. 

“Nnnoo.” The word is slurred, as if spoken language is slippery, escaping out of her grasp. The tendons in her neck bulge as she strains her head to follow his path around the table. “I, I'm being good.” 

_Subconjunctival hemorrhage_ , he writes, moving deliberately even as his heart races. _Cutis anserina_. 

“...no," she murmurs in a voice that knows and understands that its fate is sealed, in the pathetic voice of prey that looks its end in the face and pleads meekly for its life. "No, no, no!” As he leans in her voice pitches up, pleadingly. Her eyes lock onto his as her words runs together in a muddied blur of stutters, breathing fast with eyes so wide he feels like could drown in them. They’re a warm brown, or were, and he can see where the ADAM in her system has stained the edge of her irises that golden yellow.

When she falls quiet he strokes the damp skin of her temple, muttering prayers under his breath. 

She says nothing, just stares him in the face, wide quivering eyes reminding him of spooked horses. Under the filth, her pale face is so knotted and tight with fear that he wonders if she's going to start crying.

Putting down the notebook he leans in again, making an effort to catch her eye.

"How're you feeling today?” 

That's all it takes. 

She falls apart at his words, bowing her (holy, _strong_ ) back as she tries to wrench herself free of the restraints. The metal and leather of the operating table groan their complaints but hold fast, even as the first welts appear on her arms and legs from the effort. She’d gotten out of the first and second versions of the restraints, ripped through them like tissue and taken down technicians before anyone could react, most notably by swinging the poor man’s head against a table with a resounding crunch. Now, however, the straps are three times as wide and as thick as his fingers, no longer simple leather but cased in steel. 

“NO! NO! NO!” 

She must be fully awake, now- items around him rip free from their containers and fly towards him, angling towards his eyes, his nose, his throat. He says nothing, letting the volley bounce off of him. It’s tolerable, now- before, when they’d first gotten her here, her telekinesis had been wildly underestimated and she’d nearly decapitated several men with a table, swinging it at them like a guillotine. This time, everything larger then palm sized is bolted down or locked away, and the few things that hit him leave nothing worse then bruises in their wake.

The reaction is disappointing, but expected- Dr. Lamb had warned them about this, the way the girls themselves seemed unable to cope with the power inside them. He was reminded of the maenads, those wild followers of Dionysus, who lost their minds after courting the divine for so long. As if to underscore this, he heard the snapping of teeth and looked to see the girl snarling at his outreached hand, teeth clicking as she eyed the scalpel between his gloved fingers with something akin to frightened rage. 


	5. (Avengers/BioShock 2) Crossover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A piece of a now-abandoned BioShock/Avengers crossover I had in mind, in which a Big Sister was found and turned over to the Avengers in an attempt to rehabilitate her and turn her to heroism. Gave up after realizing I don't actually like the Avengers.

Natasha knows something is wrong as soon as she hears the strain in Tony’s voice. 

She’s crossing an international border when she gets his call. Halfway to Estonia on an espionage assignment, she isn’t expecting to hear from him. A quip about social calls comes to her mind but when she hears the tension in the  billionaire’s voice she braces herself for something big. 

“We need you back at the tower. We’ve got a guest.” He sounds irritable, distracted; when he hangs up abruptly she isn’t surprised. It’s a short request, direct to a fault- and already, her mind is moving to fill in the blanks, drawing on all the information she can. By the time she’s back on her way to New York, being shuttled by several tons of steel and plastic, she has a few theories in mind. 

* * *

She’s wrong on all counts. 

It’s not the first time she’s been proven wrong, but this time is a special occasion- when she arrives, she’s greeted with a strange quiet. Instead of the swarm of SHIELD agents she expected, there’s a hush over the tower, the kind of tenseness that only comes from something going enormously wrong. She’s already in the elevator and watching the numbers steadily rise when Tony calls again. He sounds even more agitated, and Natasha feels a stab of curiosity at this ‘guest’. “Top floor. Take your time.” She ignores the snark and takes special care to hang up on him, this time- just as payback. Biting down a smirk, she watches the elevator doors part to reveal Maria. She’s as professional as always, but even from a few feet away Natasha can make out the edges of a deep, ugly bruise across one cheek. Giving a short nod, Natasha moves to follow the taller woman down the hall.

“What can you tell me? Tony wasn’t exactly helpful in his calls.”

As she speaks, she takes stock of their path- instead of heading towards the lounge area, Maria is guiding her deeper into another wing of the tower- towards what is essentially a storage facility. Every door is vaulted, heavy and unbreakable, with the added protection of a fingerprint scanner. Maria’s walk slows and Natasha adjusts, reflecting her pace. She’s already fairly sure which door they’re headed for; only one is flanked by armed guards. Her premonition is rewarded when Maria stops and gestures to the entrance, seemingly in response. 

“It’d be easier to show you.”


	6. (BioShock 2) cutting room floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of micro-fics, a few lines at best, but I think they're enjoyable enough to post on here in a bundle.

The water is warmer then she expected. The comforting temperature, combined with the monotonous motion back-and-forth of the waves allows Eleanor to get lost in thinking of nothing: simply feeling the splash against her helmet as her arms mechanically scissor through the water, the resistance the tide pushes against her calves as she pushes forward. She keeps on like this for hours, aware and yet not. It’s not until the sky begins to shift towards night, shedding its blue for black that she stops and rolls over, rocked by the waves as she watches the first stars begin seeding the sky. 

She’s never seen it before. Her father had, before he’d come to Rapture, but the weight of his corpse cooling on the lifeboat roof had seen to it he never would again. 

The fact pops into her head, unwelcome, and makes a home in the hollow of her chest, growing heavier until she thinks it might just rip a hole in her to the other side, punching through her skin and suit and sinking to the sea floor. She doesn’t want to feel like _this_ anymore; doesn’t want to yield to the sucking despair that threatens to overwhelm her, so before she can think on it further she flips herself over and starts swimming again, moving in hard, angry strokes that send sprays of seawater along the sides of her vision. 

* * *

Augustus hasn't been home in years. 

He hasn't been back to see his mother, his aunt or even his sleazy half-brother; but despite not having seen Panama (even on a map!) in at least a decade, he could somehow remember the sunshine- the way it melted the cold from his bones, warming him until he felt as bright as stained glass lit from within. 

* * *

“There we are. He's perfectly safe now.” 

The words floated to Subject Delta through a gauzy haze, barely comprehensible to his as he stood there, watching the soft lights diffuse the sharp shape of the mob surrounding him. The faint tapping of heels interrupted his reverie; vaguely, he noticed the form of Sofia Lamb walking into view. Part of him stirred in recognition, bringing with it the first strains of anger- but the Hypnotize plasmid had bolted him to the ground, leaving him as meek as a beast  on the killing floor. 

“This is  **not** your daughter, do you understand?” Her voice was level, barely emotive at best, but as she spoke her eyes narrowed and the muscles in her jaw tightened. “Her name is Eleanor, and she is  _ mine _ .” 

The anger flared deep in him again, as vicious and raw as a volcano, but he could only clench his teeth in the face of the insult. 

Oblivious to his anger, or perhaps because of it, Sofia gave him a syrupy smile before continuing. 

“Now. Kneel, please.”

Against his will, his legs twitched into action, and he found himself on his knees before her.

“Remove your helmet.”

Her smile was softer now, more genuine: as she’d gained control of the situation- over Delta specifically- she'd fallen into a tranquil, easygoing state. Behind her, his Little Sister trembled, as delicate as a fawn- and when the gaunt woman reached out and grabbed her from him he could only watch.

* * *


	7. (Accidental) Adoption Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark Meltzer has a hard time saying no to strays. 
> 
> OR
> 
> AU where Mark Meltzer never actually arrives in Rapture and Cindy is returned by a stranger who won't take a hint.

She’s _watching_ him. 

Even though Mark knows his way around the house by heart, can maneuver between every knothole in the wood and creaky spot on the planks when he opens Cindy’s bedroom door and sidles in while she's _watching_ him, heart-shaped face expressionless save the two eyes boring holes in his skin. They’re tinted a hazy yellow with the irises barely visible. On a normal day when Mark was feeling more generous he might have opted to describe the color as a shade similar to honey but here, shining with contempt in the oppressively tense darkness of the bedroom they reminded him of puddles of cold piss, wet and repulsive.

If not for the staring, intense as it was, he could have almost convinced himself she was sleeping, angular form curled possessively around Cindy in a parody of an embrace. In response to the autumn chill outside, his daughter had crawled into the freak’s arms and burrowed against her, cherubic face smushed firmly against the multitude of buckles and clasps making up the strange armor. Seeing her tiny arms latching onto that... _kidnapper,_ hugging her tightly like a teddy bear, stung more than he expected, something like rejection making his eye sting with tears. 

Tearing his eyes away from the face of his sleeping daughter who had (finally, _finally_ ) returned home, his eyes met that discolored gaze once more. Despite the other girl’s nonthreatening position, the brutal lines of her silhouette screamed violence. Even the sight of her gloves, smeared with dried blood and weathered with sea salt made his ribs pulse, old pain prickling at the edges of his consciousness.

Trying to keep from waking Cindy he hunched his shoulders, voice dropped to a whisper. 

“You brought her home. She’s **here**. Why are you still hanging around?”

No response.

“You need to _go,_ damn it. You’re scaring her!”

 _You’re scaring_ **_me_** , he thought, but didn’t elaborate.

Nothing, at first. It wasn’t until he heard the distinct rustle of fabric from the side of the bed that he saw it: one of those same filthy gloves cupping Cindy’s face, a grimy thumb swiping over the flushed apple of her cheek.

“You crazy _bitch!”_

His feet moved without his permission, bringing him into striking range-

Only to lurch to a stop as the girl’s breathing audibly sped up, a warm glow thrumming under the skin of her free hand like threads of lava. Her expression was pulled into a strange combination of emotions- there was rage of course, but beneath that fear and under that, a flicker of exhausted resignation. 

_Of course._ It seemed to say. _Here we go again._

Lowering his arm and taking a few steps back seemed to have an inverse effect: she visibly relaxed, hand going slack on the sheet with an ominous curl of smoke. Her gaze had shifted from hostile to wary and Mark felt compelled to talk, to fill up the expectant silence.

Wordlessly they stood staring at each other the oppressive silence punctuated by wind outside, howling and rattling the window like an animal starved. It wasn’t until Cindy grumbled, then sighed in her sleep that he remembered his entire reason for coming- the pink comforter still draped on his shoulder. Even though he’d already seen her, held her in his arms, he still cringed to see just how _thin_ she was; her once-chubby cheeks had vanished, giving way to the shape of her skull underneath. It looked so fragile the sight of it made his heart ache, the grief threatening to overwhelm him. It wasn’t until he looked at the older girl still watching him that he recognized that same gauntness in _her_ , those unblinking eyes framed by circles so dark they resembled bruises. His first instinct towards her had been to disregard her as yet another blind fanatic, dangerous in her zealotry but now as he watched those same dirty hands carefully arrange their grip on Cindy, as if she were a treasure too great to lose, he realized they were closer in age then he thought. 

_Big Sister,_ he recalled Cindy calling her and with a sick sinking feeling he realized the name wasn’t just some empty cult honorific- now he could see she was still young herself, two lost children seeking comfort in a makeshift sisterhood. In the moments after understanding had come to him he felt like a fool; she’d insisted on feeding Cindy her hastily-made meal earlier then carried her to bed and rocked her to sleep. How he _hadn’t_ seen it earlier, he had no idea, especially after his daughter had so plainly and repeatedly stated their kinship. 

(When he allowed himself a moment of hope it had always been just him and her; father and daughter reunited at last, having rescued his little girl from the invisible monsters. Now though, watching the two clutch each other as the storm raged outside he understood the process of recovery was never going to be as simple as separation.)

Once again, he forced himself to meet that biting glare, sympathy softening his expression in turn. 

“I assume you’re staying? I’d best get used to you and my daughter as a package deal for now, then.” 

Unblinking the older girl adjusted her legs seemingly unconcerned as the ragged edges of her armor plucked at the fleece of the bedsheets. 

“That’s a yes, I’ll say. Just... take care of her, okay? She’ll need it here. She’s been gone for too long.”

At this, the girl looked borderline offended. She didn’t move or even break eye contact from him but her entire expression seemed to tighten as if she’d bitten something sour, before defaulting back into that paranoid watchfulness.

 _She lives,_ Mark thought to himself, momentarily proud of instigating a reaction in her that wasn’t violence or escape. _There may be salvation for this one yet._ Thoroughly drained, he ignored the inopportune stirring of hope in his chest before starting the arduous task of inching out of the room the way he’d come. He’d made his first step when the open door _bucked_ from his reach and slammed itself shut much to the complaint of the rickety frame. Uncomprehending he studied the familiar wood, looking for any signs of life- only to have his confusion silenced by the unmistakable sensation of eyes on him. A shiver worked its way up his spine and settled there, teasing the hairs on the back of his neck and he spun on the spot to see what the _hell_ was going on- 

_Of course._

Those same yellow eyes met his own. Maybe it was the low light or his own exhaustion but Mark swore he could see the intent behind that look- thinly veiled irritation, kept hidden only by a learned quiet. Then with no warning she thrust a hand out to him, the vambrace on her arm clicking with the motion. He hadn’t meant to jump but his legs seemed to ignore his input, especially when the lance on her wrist glinted evilly in the moonlight. 

“What.” 

Her fingers curled into the palm, then stretched out again. The demanding gesture made sense enough but the implication was lost on him- food? Water? It wasn’t until he took another step and felt something soft underfoot that he recalled the quilt he’d brought with him, now piled helplessly on the floor after slipping free from his shoulder. 

“This?”

Another open-close gesture, this one slightly more urgent. Leaning closer to the pair on the bed, Mark unfurled the blanket and watched it settle over the girls, tucking it in as closely as he dared. The older girl ( _he’d have to figure out a name for her, this was getting ridiculous)_ stiffened when he came within reach, but otherwise reacted little as he smoothed the sheets and pulled away, satisfied. Cindy made a pleased murmur as she burrowed deeper in until the only trace of her was a loose foot and a mop of dirty blonde hair, both adrift on a sea of dyed cotton. 

Allowing himself a smile at the sight, he turned towards the other girl in an attempt to gauge her reaction but her attention had turned to Cindy and the expression on her face was so tender Mark felt ashamed, an interloper in his own home. 

Behind him the door creaked open in a clear dismissal and he started to move towards it, footfalls carefully muted. His hand was gripping the knob and his arm was beginning to pull but he stopped, turning one last time to the girl watching his departure. 

“Whatever your name is... thank you. I don’t know what else happened down there, if they stole you like they stole Cindy, but... you brought me my daughter back. And I’ll never forget that.”

Words spoken, he turned and briskly made his way down the dark hallway before staggering into his room and throwing himself fully-clothed into bed. He was asleep almost immediately, soothed by something warmer than hope and comforted by dreams of two different hands holding his own.

  
  
  



	8. antipole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short exploration of a role-reversed Booker/Elizabeth. Booker is the isolated dandy and Anna is the troubled ex-veteran who's tired of all this.

Booker knows every part of the tower by heart by now. He knows the loose floorboard by the southernmost post of his bed; he knows the broken thread in the seam of the dining room rug; he knows which hinges squeak on the chest where he keeps his favorite books. He knows the entirety of the tower inside and and out- simply because for all intents and purposes, it IS his inside and out. 

What he does not know, however, is the name of the woman lying facedown on the library floor, looking just as confused as he does even as the broken part of the ceiling dangles down above them both like a huge copper penny. He figures she must be one of the bandits he’s read about, breaking into his house so rudely, so he grabs the thickest, heaviest book in arms reach and throws it at her, only to cringe inwardly when it bounces off her forehead, knocking her back onto her behind as she struggles to her feet. 

“Hey -- ow -- knock it off! Ugh, will you _stop_ it?”

He grabs another book, this one bound in heavy leather, and flings it at her: this time, she’s ready- she catches the tome mid-air and tosses it aside, leveling him with a hard glare. She’s wearing a cycling suit tied tight with a sash over dark, heavy bloomers and well-worn leather boots.

“Will you stop it?!”

Against himself, Booker lowers his weapon of choice (this one on Quantum Physics, his favorite) and darts closer, watching the uninvited guest push herself to her feet. Something in his panicked expression must give her pause, and her demeanor softens, stern gaze dropping as she rolls up the sleeves of her suit in a practiced gesture. 

“...I'm not here to hurt you.” She adds after a moment. 

“Who are you?”

“My name is DeWitt. I'm a... friend. I've come to get you out of here.” Her hand drifts towards his shoulder, gentle in its intent but he bristles regardless, ducking out of reach with a grimace, swatting at her with the book. “Get away!” 

After a moment though, curiosity gets the better of him and he leans close, feeling his pulse race under the starched sailor suit he wore. The fear from before was still there, but was muted, overridden by something sickeningly like hope.

“Are you real?”

A ghost of a smile curls the edges of her mouth at that, something like bitter amusement flickering through her hazel eyes.

“I'm real enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their wardrobe pieces are as followed: Elizabeth is wearing a victorian-style cycling suit, [like so](https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cRHo0sjlo1Q/W29wfei6RGI/AAAAAAAANlQ/A94IoWZKaDc4Is1nZO9poqQa7XgFfW8lQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_6350.jpg), and Booker is wearing a [sailor suit](https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HASqzAeIkNs/V7_vRR7AWqI/AAAAAAAAXIw/H_H7RZXDk3UNFlz_sMM09etOuHwuZ6BSwCLcB/s1600/website-cc-trip-photos-3.jpg). While slightly older than the real-life styles of 1913, I choose these because of the rigid fashion rules/social conservatism would have left Columbian fashion slightly behind the curve.


End file.
